


An Equal, or Something Like

by MarbleGlove



Category: Highlander: The Series, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarbleGlove/pseuds/MarbleGlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man who is the British Government isn't used to having equals. It's... nice.<br/>(Written in response to the prompt: Mycroft thinks he's met his match. He has no idea how far out of his depth he truly is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a stand alone ficlet in response to a prompt (Methos/Mycroft: Mycroft thinks he's met his match. He has no idea how far out of his depth he truly is.) but the pairing has been nibbling at my brain, so there may be more coming.

Of course the British Ministry knew about Immortals.

The public records didn’t mention them and the laws didn’t account for them, but enough people in power were either Immortals themselves or recruited by The Watchers to watch those immortals, that their existence was institutional knowledge to a certain extent.

As a minor bureaucrat in the Ministry, Mycroft had no specific need to know, but as the individual responsible for making sure _things_ went smoothly, he made sure that the CCTV cameras recorded what they should and did not record what they should not. He had visited the central Watcher archives a few times and, despite the initial boredom, had been delighted to discover the existence of one Adam Pierson.

Mr. Pierson was a minor cog in The Watcher organization, researching one of the older immortals and providing translation services to other Watchers. He was, Mycroft realized, in a similar role to Mycroft himself who officially was a minor cog in the Ministry, researching efficiency and providing services to other ministry officials. And just like Mycroft, Mr. Pierson knew everybody and every thing, and could be depended on to direct events to their best conclusions. And he judged what was best.

As soon as Mycroft had ascertained this flow of power, he changed his liaison assignment so that he didn’t have to ‘bother’ any high-ranking Watchers and could ‘simply’ interact with Mr. Pierson.

Everything was much more efficient that way.

And Mr. Pierson seemed equally pleased with the situation. If he hadn’t been, Mycroft knew, then the situation wouldn’t have developed.

He did wonder, sometimes, how Mr. Pierson had identified him as a power hub for the British Ministry. Mycroft, after all, had had the advantage of seeing Mr. Pierson working in his own setting, while Mr. Pierson had been handicapped by meeting Mycroft as merely a visitor.

It didn’t really matter, though, so Mycroft didn’t spare it much thought. It was a delightful and rare treat to have identified an equal.

They had high tea together approximately once every three months, alternating whose turn it was to cross the Channel.

Even at the height of The Watcher’s restructuring, Mr. Pierson had still made time for their quarterly meeting.

“How did affairs reach this point?” Mycroft asked. Watcher’s killing Immortals, Immortals killing Watchers, and seemingly everyone turning on everyone else. Mycroft had had higher expectations of Mr. Pierson.

But Mr. Pierson had merely shaken his head. “It happens every few centuries. Mortal memory, even supported by institutional memory, is relatively short, while Immortal memory is obscenely long. A controlled fire with as few casualties as possible is the best that one can hope for in order to reinforce the lesson on both sides.”

That should have been Mycroft’s first clue.

Or perhaps his fifth clue, but it wasn’t until his last luncheon with Mr. Pierson that Mycroft began to realize with whom he was sharing a table.

“I have enjoyed our relationship immensely, Mr. Holmes. And I hope to continue it for some years to come. However I’m afraid,” Mr. Pierson had said, “that it is time for Adam Pierson to die.”

Mycroft had enough control to keep the uncertainty from his face. But his thoughts whirled.

“Has something happened that is taking you away?”

“No, no. It is merely that The Watcher situation no longer needs such direct attention. And time moves ever onward. Adam is approaching his 40th birthday, after all.”

It was a stunning realization that Mycroft had somehow missed the fact that over the years, his companion had aged in his hairstyle and his body language but not his face or skin tone.

Mr. Pierson must have noticed his surprise, because he was audibly surprised as well, “You hadn’t realized?”

Mycroft felt like he was playing catch up, a game he had never much enjoyed and hadn’t played since he was a teenager, despite all of Sherlock’s attempts.

Well, better to admit it than to hide it poorly. “No, I hadn’t realized.”

“Ah well. I don’t, as a rule, tell people, but it is so rare that I find anyone so like who I might have been…”

Mycroft was who this man might have been had he not had years, centuries, possibly millennia, more experience. Mycroft suddenly felt very callow and unsure of himself. He shook that feeling off.

He had inserted himself into the British Ministry when others saw him as nothing but a callow youth. This was merely a similar situation on a larger playing field.

“Since I know my parents and quite resemble my mother, I doubt that I will ever be facing you as a true equal.”

“Age is not everything or even most of it. I hope you are willing and interested in maintaining our relationship, because I think you are one of the few people capable of maintaining a relationship across multiple identities.”

Mycroft inspected his teacup as he considered the situation and his own emotions.

“I think I would enjoy that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ministry and The Watcher have high tea, with guests

Mycroft held a brief forlorn hope that Sherlock hadn't noticed him through the glass window of the restaurant. It lasted only an instant. He knew that glint in his little brother's eye.

For a moment longer, he hoped that perhaps Sherlock were in the middle of chasing down some plebeian criminal and thus unwilling to think on anything else, not even attempting to embarrass Mycroft.

That hope, too, withered a quick death.

A turn swirled that dramatic coat of his and quick strides took him to the door of the restaurant and brushing past the maitre d'. Doctor Watson trailed only slightly behind, minus his cane, so they likely were in the middle of a case, but not too urgent to prevent a quick stop.

"Should we order another setting?" Methos asked. "I hope you don't mind, but I believe my name should be Dr. Benjamin Adams for as long as your brother is here."

It was not at all surprising that the immortal he was currently conversing with had noticed his momentary distraction, identified the cause, and had a plan in place. It made sense. Mycroft wasn't sure if Sherlock knew about Immortals or not. His brother had not been called upon to investigate the results of any immortal challenges, nor had he come to rant at Mycroft regarding the hidden population having discovered them by some other means, so Mycroft was inclined to think Sherlock was not aware of them at this point. But he wasn't absolutely certain and time could always change the situation.

Benjamin Adams was an innocuous identity that could lead a detective on a merry chase through historical documents without going anywhere significant. Plus, Dr. Adams could converse with Dr. Watson on the current state of the medical field while Mycroft dealt with Sherlock.

"Certainly." He signaled a waiter to bring two additional settings, and thus allowing the maitre d' to relax regarding the rude entrance, as well as informing his assistant that his migrating weekly fraternal check up appointment could be shifted to take place here and now.

And then Sherlock was here.

"A social meeting, Mycroft? Have you finally found someone to bribe to be your friend?"

Perhaps as much as a minute had passed since Mycroft had first seen him outside the window. His appointments with Sherlock did tend to be sudden, and, whenever Sherlock could arrange it, maximally intrusive. And Sherlock had, of course, identified the exact thing that made his meetings with Methos so unusual.

Mycroft didn't have friends. He didn't have the time and he didn't have the inclination to have friends. It was much more productive to have minions and much more interesting to do work. When he needed a break, he went to the Diogenes Club and sat in silent company. Except that Methos was not a minion and he was interesting. It made their meetings unnerving though, because meeting with Methos was the only time he had social interactions without set goals.

It made him nervous in a way that meetings with kings and dictators never did.

He ignored the feeling and assumed it would eventually go away.

"Sherlock, it is lovely to see you as always. And Dr. Watson, I see you are doing well. Allow me to introduce Dr. Benjamin Adams."

Mycroft always graciously introduced his brother to who ever he was with when Sherlock barged into his meetings. It was a sign of love as much as it was of power and control. There was no meeting so important that Mycroft would not welcome Sherlock's disruptive presence and there was no meeting that he didn't have sufficient control over to compensate for that disruption. The words were the same as they would have been, regardless of who he had been with, but Mycroft found himself slightly awkward with the realization that he actually didn't mind Sherlock meeting Methos or the reverse.

He didn't mind Methos knowing him. Knowing that he had a weakness, a loose-canon of a brother whom he still loved. Mycroft knew hundreds of people in his professional capacity but very few in a personal manner and those were generally born of necessity. But he didn't mind Methos knowing. And now he rather thought he understood why Methos himself, who hid so completely from the society of his own kind that most considered him nothing more than a myth, should choose to allow Mycroft to know him. Such knowledge could be a vulnerability, yes, but it was only as vulnerable or as guarded as the other person was potentially antagonistic or vulnerable himself.

Methos wasn't active enough to be antagonistic and was anything but vulnerable.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you both." Methos rose to shake their hands, or at least shake Dr. Watson's hand. Sherlock had given him one thorough look over and then turned decidedly towards Mycroft who frowned at the rudeness, but otherwise let it pass.

"A doctor? Decided to get a sidekick of your own? Is Hera jealous? Hey!"

That last bit at least was in reaction to Dr. Watson kicking him in the ankle. Mycroft smirked. He knew better than to refer to his minions as minions. Sherlock still needed to work on his tact and refrain from referring to his sidekick as a sidekick.

Methos watched with some amusement, too, but didn't comment other than to ask Dr. Watson if he had read the latest edition of the British Medical Journal and what he thought of the cancer research coming out of Denmark.

"Dr. Adams is a friend. Not a 'sidekick.' This is," Mycroft pointed out, "a social meeting, just as you said."

Sherlock glared at him suspiciously. "You don't socialize without ulterior motives."

"Neither of us have friends, and yet here we are."

"Hmm." The glare did not lessen, rather it sharpened. "You've never been jealous of my having John, although you should be. I doubt your doctor is a crack shot like my doctor is. But now you have a friend. And one who is a doctor, or at least enough of a doctor to discuss medical matters with John. You are hiding something from me."

Well, yes, Mycroft was obviously hiding something from Sherlock but his little brother wasn't quite up to analyzing Mycroft the way he did other people. Mycroft had grown up with his sharp-eyed little brother, after all.

Sherlock grabbed a pastry and pouted as he ate it.

They sat together in silence, listening to the two doctors discuss the medical profession and pretending not to eye each other covertly.

Mycroft could learn more about his brother by simply seeing him than he ever could from anything Sherlock willingly told him. His little brother seemed to be doing well. He was healthy and happy, though the tea service here was as close as he'd had to a real meal in twenty hours. At least he'd slept for a few hours last night and had slept regularly for the last week.

God bless the good Dr. Watson for that.

"You genuinely respect him."

Mycroft remained silent.

"And you're not at all worried about me deducing him. He's hiding something from me, too. He's a doctor but he's not Doctor Benjamin Adams. At least, that's not the name on his passport."

"Have you developed an interest in investigating people in my social sphere? I certainly have a few cases that could use your assistance."

Sherlock snarled at that like he was a teenager again.

Mycroft smirked.

"No. But I will deduce him later. Come, Watson, we can't waste our time here. The game's afoot." And with another swirl of his overly dramatic coat, Sherlock departed trailed by an apologetic Dr. Watson. His departure was as abrupt as his arrival.

Mycroft and Methos watched through the window as Sherlock and Watson raced off.

"I do apologize for my brother's rudeness."

"Mycroft, your brother is a delight." Methos took a sip of his tea. "And you think so, too."

"Yes," Mycroft admitted. It was an admission he didn't think he'd ever made to anyone before. "I do. I like difficult people."

"And difficult situations. And difficult problems."

"True." Mycroft's job was all about difficult people and situations and problems. He loved dealing with it all. He wouldn't be nearly so good at it if he didn't. Most people who knew who and what he really was in the government were either jealous of the amount of power or pitying of the amount of work and both types were idiots. The work was a pleasure and the power only existed by using the lightest of touches.

Some would say that he had power by knowing Methos, by knowing this most deadly and experienced of immortals and by being his friend.

That power was real, and he rather thought it now extended somewhat in protection of his brother. But it only existed in Mycroft never attempting to use it, or even ever relying on it.

Methos had the same power with him. Mycroft… liked, for lack of a better term, the other man. Which meant that in his own way he looked out for him, but Methos knew better than to attempt any direct manipulation.

And so they came together once a month to play this most subtle game of manipulation that was friendship for people like them. It was a pleasure that he wanted to last.

"And you are a very difficult person."

Methos was startled into a laugh. "Yes, I am." He grinned at Mycroft.

Mycroft was not the type of person who grinned. He really wasn't. But his own smile was just as genuine and delighted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set after the main events of the fourth episode (A Scandal in Belgravia), but prior to the epilogue.

“Matthew,” Mycroft smiled a greeting, attempting to project his usual calm control rather than the simmering rage that he couldn’t seem to get rid of. If anyone would notice he was off his game, it would be Methos. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, but wasn’t expecting it.” 

Methos nodded and smiled back. “I was in the area and thought I’d stop by.”

It was hard to tell, with Methos, whether or not it was a true coincidence or not. Last Mycroft had heard, Methos, or rather Matthew Wilkinson, had been in South Africa, but he could easily have something that brought him back to the United Kingdom or even to Europe and have considered that to be ‘in the area.’ Mycroft hoped it was a coincidence, just as he hoped that he had imagined the sharp look in Methos’ eye. He poured the tea.

“It happens to us all, eventually.” Methos spoke casually, as if they were continuing a conversation, rather than having their first conversation in nearly four months.

Mycroft was not going to ask, but coincidence seemed increasingly unlikely. “You do realize I’m not immortal.”

Adam ignored the interjection. “We aim too high and we fail, and it feels like betrayal. After all of my previous successes, it must be someone else’s fault that I failed now.”

“Sherlock did…” Mycroft started, but he trailed off before he could complete the accusation. Sherlock had been just one of a thousand or more pawns at play in a rather complex game of espionage and counter-espionage. That Mycroft had failed to move that pawn correctly, that his opponent had managed to win, was not the fault of the pawn. “I didn’t prepare him properly. Miss Adler knew how to manipulate him better than I did.”

“Or maybe was simply more willing to do so. To treat a brother as a pawn is not an easy thing.” The paradox of that statement caught Mycroft’s attention. Immortals didn’t have brothers, and yet what should have been a platitude coming from Adam had real knowledge—and real pain—in it.

“You speak from your vast experience with brothers?” Mycroft couldn’t help the vicious edge of anger from peaking out there. He knew his relationship with Sherlock was troubled, but despite what he had heard, he knew that if there was one thing an immortal could not have experience with, it was with family, blood relationships.

Methos simply sipped his tea and watched Mycroft. Mycroft took a few deep breaths. This was worse than when he had snapped at Mrs. Hudson.

Mycroft wondered how much Methos actually knew about the events that had taken place. The appearance of omniscient could often allow one to acquire information, or at least enough references upon which to base educated guesses.

“I apologize, I’m afraid I’m not very good company at the moment.”

Another sip of tea and then Methos’ eyes went introspective. “Brothers are difficult. And yes, I do know it from personal experience.” He hesitated for only a moment before continuing. “I had three brothers that I lived with for approximately a thousand years. This was some years ago, you understand.”

Mycroft nodded his understanding of the fact. He didn’t think it was possible to understand the fact that Methos was telling him something personal about his past. That wasn’t how their conversations went. They spoke of the present and of the future; never of the past, and certainly never of Methos’ past.

“They are all dead, now. One of them by my hand.”

It was also a bit unnerving to consider that this man, this friend of his, was a killer as well as a manipulator.

“My condolences.”

“Thank you. Everybody dies eventually, but I loved them and they gave me purpose during a dark period of my life.”

Mycroft tried not to consider too closely what Methos might consider a ‘dark period.’ Instead he thought of what he had told Sherlock; how _all lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage._ All lives do end, and all hearts are broken eventually, if they live long enough. But perhaps, _perhaps_ , caring could occasionally be an advantage.

As angry as Mycroft had been at the unraveling of his plans, it was at least partly due to his inability to keep Moriarty’s attention’s focused on himself and away from his little brother. How much of his own power and position had come from that drive to protect Sherlock?

And why was he suddenly thinking of his rage in the past tense?

“Feeling better?” Methos asked.

Mycroft considered the question. “Yes, actually.”

“Good.”

They both sipped their tea. Mycroft did feel relaxed. This was similar to the Diogenes Club’s comfortable silence; better even since it was natural rather than enforced.

Sometimes he just needed company, calm, and silence, to allow his thoughts to slow and his mind to consider.

He considered his companion.

Methos was here for a reason. This was not one of their regular meetings. Mycroft would not have intentionally met with Methos in the state in which he had been. Methos saw too much and Mycroft did not like displaying a weakness to anyone. And yet, Mycroft wasn’t sorry to have seen his friend. There was a level of intimacy here that Mycroft generally avoided, and yet it was disconcertingly comfortable with Methos. Such comfort gave him a freedom to ask questions that normally he would have stifled.

“You are here for a particular reason, are you not?”

“Yes. Mostly to see how you are, though.”

“And the rest of it?”

“Beheading is less common as a means of punishment these days than it has been in the past.”

Mycroft contemplated his tea. Methos’ statement was not as random as it appeared. He was talking about Irene Adler. Mycroft had heard of her demise only recently and had not yet decided on what or how to tell his brother. He wondered now if perhaps she had been immortal and if that made her death more or less disappointing. He stalled for a bit of time. “I imagine immortals are rather pleased with that trend away from beheading.”

“Mmm.” Methos shrugged contemplatively. “It used to keep a lot of the wilder immortals in check. Or at least got rid of them when they were being too stupid. These days most immortals live until they are killed in a challenge. Previously, most immortals died by mortal hands. It’s changed the nature of the Game.”

Methos was giving him the opportunity to follow a tangent that would, no doubt, be a highly interesting and useful look at the social interactions of immortals and the progress of the Game, potentially useful in figuring out a potential time line for the Gathering. Mycroft felt sure that Methos had already made many calculations of his own on the subject.

It would be extremely useful information to have, especially given some of the high ranked individuals in the British government who happened to be immortal.

It was a tempting tangent for more than one reason. But he wasn’t going to follow it.

“With beheadings being much rarer, I imagine you are able to keep a much closer eye on them when they do occur.”  

“Oh yes.”

“And I would imagine that, if being beheaded by mortals have long been a threat, escaping from being beheaded by mortals as long been a valued skill.”

Methos looked at him. “Do you want to know what I know?”

Mycroft had to seriously consider that. His relationship with his little brother was so very fragile right now. He didn’t want to disturb it more than it already was. But, knowledge was power, and “I do not plan to act on whatever you tell me, but I would like to know.”

Methos nodded, understanding.

“A pale-skinned, light-eyed man helped a young woman escape being beheaded in Karachi, Pakistan, the other day. One of the local government officials is Buran, an immortal who uses the law to protect himself. He covered up the escape to prevent any other immortals from thinking they might be able to avoid official punishment and force him into a one-on-one challenge.”

“None of my men know about this.”

“Buran is very smart and very careful. And your,” Adam paused, and then continued again, “the unknown man was surprisingly subtle.”

“My brother is one of the few people I have trouble predicting. So smart and yet, so very stupid.”

“Such is the way of younger brothers.”

Mycroft wondered what, if anything, he would be able to discover about Methos’ brothers. The Watchers knew so little about Methos. What little they did know had been compiled by Methos himself for their consumption.

All the information is true, Mycroft is certain. It is simply not complete.

Methos had once told Mycroft that he was what Methos might have been had he been mortal. Mycroft wonders, looking at Methos, if Methos is what he could have been had he been immortal.

“I believe I will tell Dr. Watson what I have learned.”

Methos looked enquiringly, but not doubtful.

“That my network has informed me that she was beheaded. And that it would take Sherlock himself to fool me in this. What the good doctor makes of that or chooses to pass on will be entirely up to him.”

 


End file.
